


No Peace and No Rest

by exiled-one (mistralle)



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Dark!Charles, F/F, Family, M/M, Mind Control, Revenge, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 04:56:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3314861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistralle/pseuds/exiled-one
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You see, Mr. Lehnsherr, I really have no interest in this skirmish of yours. I have no interest in your cause, but neither there is anything for me in Stryker’s doctrine. But I will need you to pass on a message for certain someone. And that you will do”.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Peace and No Rest

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd  
> Written for the XMFC/DOFP Porn Battle 2015  
> The prompt: Charles/Erik, non-con, Top!Charles, mind control
> 
> Unfortunately, not as coherent and not as porny as I'd have liked it to be

_He was relaxed and dangerous, and Erik disliked him on sight, would have disliked him even if they’d met in a much more favorable situation._

_“All yours,” mockingly drawled the guard who’d brought him here and Erik was thrown forward on his knees, and his bruised ribs echoed with pain._

_“Thank you!” The man had an astonishingly beaming smile no one in the war should be able to boast around. It made him look a bit deranged, and Erik remembered the fresh pain of long healed burns and broken bones._

_“No need of such drastic measures,” soothed a voice he already hated. “We’ll take another way.”_

_Erik looked up at him and couldn’t help but think that the eyes of this enemy were unnaturally blue. It seemed that he’d heard something about people with eyes like that but his memory refused to give up information._

_“The eyes are a mirror to the soul,” agreed the man. “Let me outline your future, Mr. Lehnsherr. We have absolutely no need in you dying. You will be much more useful as a… messenger, you might say.”_

_Erik spat at him, but his mouth was dry as much as his throat was; he hadn’t had any water for maybe more than a day._

_“Oh, none of that,” softly said his enemy, and his touch on Erik’s lips was gentle and terrifying._

_“Half of the message is that you’ll be a willing participant in crafting it.”_

 

Erik comes to senses only on the third day after his return. The nurses who tend to him are pale and shaky, and Azazel won’t meet his eyes.

 

Erik remembers that he didn’t have any nightmares while he was There – wherever it was. Maybe that is why now they return with vengeance, throwing him back into his childhood, with his Mother’s blood on the floor and a cold light of laboratory ahead of him.

 

He remembers that in the past someone was always with him there. He remembers a person he surely must have dreamed up – a short and stocky-built young man with blue eyes who always came in to shoot Schmidt and to swaddle Erik’s child self in his leather jacket smelling of gun oil and gunpowder.

 

There’s no savior waiting for him in the dreamscape of his nightmares now.

 

His only escape is this moment between waking and dreaming, when the memories of his imprisonment start to come up. He remembers feeling absolute need. He remembers salivating for someone’s cock, yearning to taste it, to feel it in himself. He remembers pain, and pleasure, and the clench of strong hands on his hips.

 

One day a memory that greets him from the barren wasteland of his dreams makes him want to close his eyes and never reopen them again.

 

 

_There was a threadbare carpet under his knees and a familiar weight of someone’s cock in his mouth. A hand was absentmindedly caressing his hair and that was the closest he felt to happiness since Shaw’s death. Someone was roaring at the door, screaming about human rights and war crimes._

_“Mr. Stryker,” said Erik’s lover, “if you intend to court martial me, please, do it right now, this instant. Or don’t bother me again.”_

_Erik heard someone chocking and sucked a little harder. The hand in his hair clenched, drawing out a moan out of him._

_“Just like that,” familiar voice gasped. “So very good to me…”_

_He was needed. He was praised and valued. And when his mouth got flooded with salty bitterness, he made sure to swallow every drop._

 

 

Sometimes Erik can spend a day barking orders and orchestrating the intricate mechanism of their army. These days are mostly common, marred only by the times when he catches his sight in the mirror and wonders why there are none of comforting bite-marks on his neck, or why aren’t his lips bruised and swollen from passionate kisses and from the worshipping of his lover’s body. That’s usually the turning point, after which he always retires to his room, or his tent, or any private corner he could call his own.

 

Sometimes he spends whole evenings before a hastily made mirror, trying to see the marks from insistent hands on his hips and sides. His body remembers the fire trails of kisses and caresses, and it seems impossible that the signs of their coupling, which seem to brand him right to his core, to the bottom of his soul, are now nonexistent.

 

The war ends on his birthday. Their troops swarm the enemy base, and not a shot is fired in their direction. Stryker and his posse are waiting for them with capitulation already signed and sealed from their part. Erik looks at Stryker’s too-clear and too-shiny eyes, he takes in his eager expression; he shudders with horror and feels sick to the bone, and the mass executions he had planned never happen.

 

 

“It’s my fault,” slurs Azazel. They are both drunk, and their victory feels empty and bitter. It’s like they were robbed of something vital. Erik’s anger is not gone, no, but it has a different feel to it now. Like it’s floundering and is ready to turn into something else.

 

“I’m sorry, Erik,” Azazel grinds out. “I… I never wanted this to happen.”

 

“Not your fault,” Erik disagrees, even though he doesn’t want to open his mouth, doesn’t want to move, and doesn’t want to breathe. He wants a thin knee to lean his head on and he wants a smell of whiskey and of strange cologne to envelop him and lull him to sleep.

 

“No, you don’t understand! “Azazel’s eyes glitter like broken glass underwater. “There was this girl, you remember? Mystique.”

 

Erik nods. This makes his head spin and there is nothing to anchor him now.

 

“She approached me first. Was so damn earnest, besotted… Like I was the most incredible thing… person… ever to be created by The One Who’s Up There.”

 

“Was a spy, wasn’t she?” Erik murmurs. His eyes refuse to stay opened.

 

“That she was,” Azazel laughs brokenly. “I wanted to kill her myself… And then Angel got caught and they decided to… how do they call it now? Exchange the prisoners? I… I just couldn’t…” He covers his face with his hands and the only thing that breaks the silence is his heavy breathing. Erik feels the dread coiling around in his chest and down in his guts.

 

“What did you do?” He asks slowly. “Azazel… Friend, what have you done?”

 

“I came to her one last time… to say goodbye,” Azazel sneers pitifully. "I asked her if it was so horrible to sleep with me or if they had chosen her to seduce me because no one ‘normal’ wanted her… She didn’t answer. And then I… Then…”

 

And Erik suddenly can’t breathe, he can’t sit straight and he is suddenly plunged into a flashback so vivid and so full, that his return, their victory and Azazel’s confession seem to be no more than one of his feverish dreams.

 

 

_He was lying on a bed much more comfortable than he’d ever lain on, and the sun peeked into the room through a veil of lightly colored drapes. Erik was a bit sore and tired, but this was something to cherish, something to taste in a variety of indulgent notes._

_Another side of the bed was already empty, and the space near it was vacant, with the chair missing. It meant that his lover was already up and about. But he still hadn’t called Erik, so it was clearly expected of him to just lounge in bed, and he had no objections to that._

_He could hear voices in the adjoining office – the one he knew so well and another, also a bit familiar, clearly female. Suddenly a child’s voice bubbled something loudly and was followed a burst of affectionate laughter._

_Erik idly wondered if the child was his lover’s. He wondered if he’d be ever allowed to hold it._

_‘Oh, my poor dear,’ amusedly flitted through his mind. ‘How eager you are to please. However, this little tyke is not mine, as in I’m not his father. Don’t you worry and better use this time to rest. I’ll be back with you shortly.’_

_Erik smiled and closed his eyes, safe, cared for._

“-rick? Erik?!”

 

A slap makes him wake up, and the reality lurches dizzyingly.

 

Azazel seems pale, as much as it is possible for a crimson-colored skin of his.

 

“Go on!” Erik hisses, clenching his hands on sturdy wrists. “It’s not the end, right?! How and why do you think it should concern me?”

 

There is a pause while Azazel seems to gather his wits, and it is the moment when Erik was the closest he’s ever been to killing his longtime comrade.

 

“She had a brother,” he forced out in the end. “She had a brother and he was a very powerful telepath.”

 

Erik closes his eyes and lets him go as if he were something disgusting.

 

 

_“You see, Mr. Lehnsherr, I really have no interest in this skirmish of yours. I have no interest in your cause, but neither there is anything for me in Stryker’s doctrine. But I will need you to pass on a message for certain someone. And that you will do”._

 

It wasn’t very difficult to find this particular house. And it was pathetically easy to break in. And it was even easier to rediscover the name that eluded him for months, slipping through his memory’s clutch like water through fingers, whether it was because of the programming reaching its expiration date or Charles Xavier having chosen his legs over his telepathy.

 

There are photos on the walls. Erik drinks in the sight of a painfully familiar face creased in a happy smile. He can see a certain progression from childhood carelessness to a wary adulthood and he can count the years by the shadows in hatefully beloved eyes.

 

There are three photos where Charles holds a dark blue child. On the first one Erik can clearly see a pointed tail curling around Charles’ wrist.

 

Erik tries not to look anywhere. His treacherous mind floods him with pictures of Charles fucking him on this plush rug, which should be tenfold more comfortable than the rag they used to have on the base; of sitting on the floor near the fireplace with skinny knees to cushion his head; of riding Charles in the huge monstrosity of an armchair…

 

His skin longs to be marked again, to add new fiery trails to invisible net that already encompasses him from head to toe.

 

In this recently bought house with new unfamiliar smells and new furniture Erik feels like a broken toy that refused to stay on the dump. He feels already used and unwanted, and he’s trembling with rage, and pain, and sorrow.

 

Charles walks in the front door, not even stopping to check for the lingering intruders. He stops on seeing him.

 

Erik wants to tear him limb from limb, he wants to skin him, to lie at his feet, to starve him, to eat from his hands…

 

“Good afternoon,” slowly says Charles. “It would be wrong to say that I didn’t expect you.”

 

He is thinner, paler, and his hair is a mess. Erik wants to yank on it until it comes out in clumps.

 

“How long have you known that I’m here?” Erik asks. Even with the capitulation signed, he’s still basically in the enemy’s territory. Whatever he plans to do, he needs to know just how long he will have until the team of Sentinels comes for his hide. Not that he can believe anything Charles says.

 

“I wasn’t sure until I saw you with my own eyes.”

 

Charles locks the door behind him and looks at Erik expectantly.

 

“He received your message.” Erik spits out, and it seems that Charles pales a bit more.

 

“Ah,” he says. “Well. I assume you came here…”

 

“Don’t!” Erik can feel his face crunching up in an ugly snarl, and everything is shaking around him, and Charles still looks calm and composed, and that. Just. Won’t. Do. “Don’t you dare presume anything about me!”

 

Charles tilts his head in a tiny nod and that’s enough for Erik’s rage to explode.

 

Charles looks good tied up with a former staircase railing. Helplessness suits him.

 

“I’ll wait until the drugs wear off,” he says. “And then you’ll take back whatever you put in my head. You make me turn back to normal. And then…”

 

And for then he hasn’t got any plans yet, he doesn’t know what he wants, and it is clear that Charles can see that even without his telepathy. (Oh, he wants it so badly, and only if he knew what it is, he’s pursue it to the ends of the Earth)

 

“Erik,” he says softly, like he did when Erik was having nightmares, or when he shuddered and shook after their first time together. “Erik, my dear. Whatever I ‘put in your head’, it have long since worn off.”

 

“Shut up,” Erik whispers. “Shut up, shut up, shut-”

 

The metal is screeching all over the house, the walls shake, and still, the metal rods cradle Charles’ wrists and throat carefully, like he’s the most precious figurine in the world. Charles watches him with solemn, sad eyes and Erik wants to weep his heart out.

 

“I have another proposition,” Charles starts. “You wait until the drug wears off.”

 

His eyes are piercing, hatefully blue, and Erik can feel phantom touches of a gentle hand on his face, can feel the agonizing shame at being exposed and the relief at having nothing else to hide.

 

“And then?” he asks, and he is even not ashamed to hear his voice break.

 

“And then you stay with me.”

 

And the floor under his feet is gone, and replaced with a yawning maw of nothingness.

 


End file.
